The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)
Page 40
Freak Show
Diagnosis: Terminal
*See “The Secret History of the World”.
About the Author
F. Paul Wilson is the New York Times bestselling author of horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction, and virtually everything in between. His books include the Repairman Jack novels—including Ground Zero, The Tomb, and Fatal Error—the Adversary cycle—including The Keep—and a young adult series featuring the teenage Jack. Wilson has won the Prometheus Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the Inkpot Award from the San Diego ComiCon, and the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Horror Writers of America, among other honors. He lives in Wall, New Jersey. You can sign up for author updates here.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
The Secret History of the World
Acknowledgments
Also by F. Paul Wilson
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE KEEP
Copyright © 1981, 2003 by F. Paul Wilson
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilson, F. Paul (Francis Paul)
The keep / F. Paul Wilson—1st trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
eISBN 978-1-250-19679-8
1. Nazis—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Castles—Fiction.
4. Good and evil—Fiction. 5. Jewish folklorists—Fiction.
6. Transylvania (Romania)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.I45695K42010
813’.54—dc22
2010035745
First Trade Paperback Edition: December 2010
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
The Secret History of the World
Acknowledgments
Also by F. Paul Wilson
About the Author
Newsletter Sign-up
Table of Contents
Copyright
Guide
Cover
Copyright
Table of Contents
Nellie didn't scream.
The dark shape moving toward her couldn't be real. It was a nightmare, a hallucination. Nothing real could be that big and move that smoothly.
Then it came closer and she was suddenly terrified. This was no dream. She opened her mouth and a cold hand sealed itself across her face.
The hand was huge, it was foul. . . . And it was not human.
Berkley books by F. Paul Wilson
AN ENEMY OF THE STATE
HEALER
THE KEEP
THE TOMB
A limited first edition hardcover was published by Whispers Press, 70 Highland Avenue, Binghamton, N.Y. 13905
THE TOMB
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley edition / November 1984
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1984 by F. Paul Wilson. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.
ISBN: 0-425-07295-9
A BERKLEY BOOK® TM 757,375 Berkley Books are published by the Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. The name "BERKLEY" and the stylized "B" with design are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Contents
Acknowledgements
chapter one 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
chapter two
chapter three 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
chapter four
chapter five 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
chapter six
chapter seven 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
chapter eight 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
chapter nine 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Acknowledgements
Abe’s neon sign originally appeared in The Weapon Shops of Isher by A. E. van Vogt, © 1951 by A. E. van Vogt. Used here by permission of the author.
Knowingly and unknowingly, the following individuals have aided me in ways large and small during the course of writing this book: Betsy Bang and Molly Garrett Bang (The Demons of Rajpur), Richard Collier (The Great Indian Rebellion), Larry Collins and Dominique LaPierre (Freedom at Midnight), Harlan Ellison (with the last line of “Crotoan”), Ken Follett, L. Neil Smith, Steven Spruill, Al Zuckerman, and, most of all, the old-time tellers of Weird Menace/Yellow Peril tales.
to my own Vickies:
Jennifer and Meggan
chapter one
manhattan
thursday, august 2, 198-
1
Repairman Jack awoke with light in his eyes, white noise in his ears, and an ache in his back.
He had fallen asleep on the couch in the spare bedroom where he kept his Betamax and projection tv. He turned his head toward the set. A nervous tweed pattern buzzed around on the six-foot screen while the air conditioner in the right half of the double window beside it worked full blast to keep the room at seventy.
He got to his feet with a groan and shut off the tv projector. The hiss of white noise stopped. He leaned over and touched his toes, then straightened and rotated his lower spine. His back was killing him. That couch was made for sitting, not sleeping.
He stepped to the Betamax and ejected the tape. He had fallen asleep during the closing credits of the 1931 Frankenstein, part one of Repairman Jack’s Unofficial James Whale Festival.
Poor Henry Frankenstein, he thought, slipping the cassette into its box. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what everyone around him thought, Henry had been sure he was sane.
Jack located the proper slot in the cassette rack on the wall, shoved Frankenstein in, and pulled out its neighbor: The Bride of Frankenstein, part two of his private James Whale Festival.
A glance out the window revealed the usual vista of sandy shore, still blue ocean, and supine sunbathers. He was tired of the view. Especially since some of the bricks had started showing through. It had been three years since he’d had the scene painted on the blank wall facing the windows of this and the other bedroom. Long enough. The beach scene no longer interested him. Perhaps a rain forest mural would be better. With lots of birds and reptiles and animals hiding in the foliage. Yes… a rain forest. He filed the thought away. He’d have to keep an eye out for someone who could do the job justice.
The phone began ringing in the front room. Who could that be? He’d changed his number a couple of months ago. Only a few people had it. He didn’t bother to lift the receiver. The answerphone would take care of that. He heard a click, heard his own voice start his standard salutation:
“Pinocchio Productions… I’m not in right now, but if you’ll—”
A woman’s voice broke in over his own, her tone impatient. “Pick up if you’re there, Jack. Otherwise I’ll call back later.”
Gia!
Jack nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the phone. He turned off the answerphone with one hand and picked up the receiver with the other.
“Gia? That you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Her voice was flat, almost resentful.
“God! It’s been a long time!” Two months. Forever. He had to sit down. “I’m so glad you called.”
“It’s not what you think, Jack.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not calling for myself. If it were up to me I wouldn’t be calling at all. But Nellie asked me to.”
His jubilation faded but he kept talking. “Who’s Nellie?” He drew a blank on the name.
“Nellie Paton. You must remember Nellie and Grace—the two English ladies?”
“Oh, yeah. How could I forget? They introduced us.”
“I’ve managed to forgive them.”
Jack let that go by without comment. “What’s the problem?”
“Grace has disappeared. She hasn’t been seen since she went to bed Monday night.”
He remembered Grace Westphalen: a very prim and proper Englishwoman pushing seventy. Not the eloping sort.
“Have the police—?”
“Of course. But Nellie wanted me to call you to see if you’d help. So I’m calling.”
“Does she want me to come over?”
“Yes. If you will.”
“Will you be there?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes. Are you coming or not?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Better wait. The patrolmen who were here said a detective from the department would be coming by this morning.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t good.
“I thought that might slow you up.”
She didn’t have to sound so smug about it. “I’ll be there after lunch.”
“You know the address?”
“I know it’s a yellow townhouse on Sutton Square. There’s only one.”
“I’ll tell her to expect you.”
And then she hung up.
Jack tossed the receiver in his hand, cradled it on the answerphone again, and flipped the switch to ON.
He was going to see Gia today. She had called him. She hadn’t been friendly and she had said she was calling for someone else—but she had called. That was more than she had done since she had walked out. He couldn’t help feeling good.
He strolled through his third-floor apartment’s front room, which served as living room and dining room. He found the room immensely comfortable, but few visitors shared his enthusiasm. His best friend, Abe Grossman, had, in one of his more generous moods, described the room as “claustrophobic.” When Abe was feeling grumpy he said it made the Addams Family house look like it had been decorated by Bauhaus.
Old movie posters covered the walls along with bric-a-brac shelves loaded with the “neat stuff” Jack continually picked up in forgotten junk stores during his wanderings through the city. He wound his way through a collection of old Victorian golden oak furniture that left little room for anything else. There was a seven-foot hutch, intricately carved, a fold-out secretary, a sagging, high-backed sofa, a massive claw-foot dining table, two end-tables whose legs each ended in a bird’s foot clasping a crystal sphere, and his favorite, a big, wing-back chair.
He reached the bathroom and started the hated morning ritual of shaving. As he ran the Trac II over his cheeks and throat he considered the idea of a beard again. He didn’t have a bad face. Brown eyes, dark brown hair growing perhaps a little too low on his forehead. A nose neither too big nor too small. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Not an altogether hideous grimace—what they used to call a shit-eating grin. The teeth could have been whiter and straighter, and the lips were on the thin side, but not a bad smile. An inoffensive face. As an added bonus, there was a wiry, well-muscled, five-eleven frame that went along with the face at no extra charge.
So what’s not to like?
His smile faltered.
Ask Gia. She seems to think she knows what’s not to like.
But all that was going to change starting today.
After a quick shower, he dressed and downed a couple of bowls of Cocoa Puffs, then strapped on his ankle holster and slipped the world’s smallest .45, a Semmerling skeleton model LM-4, into it. He knew the holster was going to be hot against his leg, but he never went out unarmed. His peace of mind would compensate for any physical discomf
ort.
He checked the peephole in the front door, then twisted the central knob, retracting the four bolts at the top, bottom, and both sides. The heat in the third floor hall slammed against him at the threshold. He was wearing Levis and a lightweight short-sleeved shirt. He was glad he had skipped the undershirt. Already the humidity in the hall was worming its way into his clothes and oozing over his skin as he headed down to the street.
Jack stood on the front steps for a moment. Sunlight glared sullenly through the haze over the roof of the Museum of Natural History far down the street to his right. The wet air hung motionless above the pavement. He could see it, smell it, taste it—and it looked, smelled, and tasted dirty. Dust, soot, and lint laced with carbon monoxide, with perhaps a hint of rancid butter from the garbage can around the corner in the alley.
Ah! The Upper West Side in August.
He ambled down to the sidewalk and walked west, along the row of brownstones that lined his street, to the phone booth on the corner. Not a booth, actually; an open chrome and plastic crate on a pedestal. At least it was still in one piece. At regular intervals someone yanked out its receiver, leaving multicolored strands of wire dangling from the socket like nerves from an amputated limb stump. At other times someone would take the time and effort to jam a small wedge of paper into the coin slot, or the tips of toothpicks into the tiny spaces between the pushbuttons and the facing. He never ceased to be amazed by the strange hobbies of some of his fellow New Yorkers.
He dialed his office number and sounded his beeper into the mouthpiece. A recorded voice—not Jack’s—came over the wire with the familiar message:
“This is Repairman Jack. I’m out on a call now, but when you hear the tone, leave your name and number and give me a brief idea of the nature of your problem. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
There was a tone and then a woman’s voice talking about a problem with the timer on her dryer. Another beep and a man was looking for some free information on how to fix a blender. Jack ignored the numbers they gave; he had no intention of calling them back. But how did they get his number? He had restricted his name to the white pages—with an incorrect street address, naturally—to cut down on appliance repair calls, but people managed to find him anyway.